


The Call of a Crow

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Masturbation, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders escapes Amaranthine with Isabela and meets up with Zevran in Antiva. Lusting and obsession ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Call of a Crow

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by kisssanitygoodbye:  
> Pairing: Anders/Zevran 
> 
> Setting: Antiva
> 
> Word or Phrase: Ser Pounce-a-Lot
> 
> Kink: Voices.

The upside of spending one’s life in captivity was that most things were new and surprising, but Isabela was one of the few familiar things, and meeting up with her in Amaranthine City was the second best thing that had ever happened to Anders, even if, as he found out a few days later, he had a tendency to get terribly, terribly seasick. At least Ser Pounce-a-Lot seemed to enjoy the journey. He came away considerably plumper after gorging himself silly on ship rats and spending long, warm days sunning himself on the deck while they sailed across the Amaranthine Sea and into Rialto Bay, to Antiva City.

Antiva was like nothing Anders could have imagined in those mean bunks at Kinloch Hold, closing his eyes and trying to pretend that he was somewhere more exciting, more worthwhile, and less trapped. He had not imagined cities with buildings of white and gold stonework, perfect cobblestone streets lined with tall, thin cypress trees or window-boxes overflowing with flowering vines, painting splashes of pink and red on every other house.  
  
He’d never imagined cafes on every corner, serving sweet-smelling brandy and slices of cool roasted meats to a strikingly beautiful caramel-skinned populace, or the scant skirts and dresses on the women and more than a few of the men. The heat was a surprise too, and almost immediately after arriving, Anders began to regret the Tevinter robes and their fuzzy pauldrons. Isabela’s outfit made a lot more sense now, and he nearly asked her if there was a tall, blond, mage-friendly version, but thought better of it—for the best, really.   
  
Anders certainly hadn’t expected the elf at the docks, but he had a sneaking suspicion that Zevran Arainai was the type of man that nobody could be properly prepared for.

Zevran met them (although “accosted” might be a more accurate word) at the docks when Isabela disembarked, jogging across the wooden planks to throw his arms around her and spin her around, a toothy smile breaking over his mobile face as he squeezed her tight, then pushed her back to look her over.   
  
“Isabela, cariño! I had not expected you for weeks! Ahh, bonita, as always, but what are you doing here? I thought you were staying in Ferelden.”

There was yet another thing that Anders never could have anticipated—that accent. If someone had told him that Antivans sounded, well, like  _that_ , he would have been running to take ship as soon as he got away from the Templars. Ferelden and its dogs and mud could rot, for all he cared, if all of Antiva sounded like this, especially if a voice like that came from lips like those.   
  
Anders would have liked to say that he said something suave and charming upon meeting Zevran, but all of his energy was spent getting off that boat and onto solid ground, Pounce riding on his shoulder, trying not to sweat to death or vomit yet again, neither of which made for good first impressions. He only smiled, hoping it looked a good deal less miserable than it felt.   
  
It didn’t, but that was fine, because a day later they were sitting at one of those cafes, under the shade of the cypress, sipping brandy while Zevran talked, rapid-fire, about everything that Isabela had missed since her last visit. There was, apparently, some incident with the guildmaster of the local guild of assassins, and, despite many extenuating circumstances, Zevran was technically in charge of the Crows for the time being.

“I know, I know,” he said with a laugh, “I am as surprised as anyone; but apparently the Crows have taken to recruiting cowards in my absence. None of them were willing to challenge me when they found the guildmaster dead at my feet. Not that they were  _supposed_  to find me, but that’s another story…”   
  
If the last few hours were any indication, Zevran was full to the brim with those stories. They listened to him speak for so long that the lamplighter began walking down the streets, carefully lighting the dark iron street lamps one by one, and the owner of the cafe finally told them that they either had to order another meal or vacate the table. So they ate roasted fish and salted eggplant with lemon and a drizzle of grassy oil, leaving only when the moon began to rise.   
  
Unfortunately, Anders hadn’t had much coin to his name upon leaving Amaranthine, not that Antiva City was a safe place to walk around with a fat purse. A man attacked Isabela in an alley, and after she made him aware that doing that was a very big mistake, she tossed his coinpurse to Anders, telling him that he’d better decide what he was going to do with himself while he was here, because she couldn’t keep an eye on him forever.

“I think that I could, but that is where we differ, my dear Isabela,” Zevran said, full of lines like that one, though they were usually more explicit and groan-worthy, not that it mattered to Anders, who was getting the impression that he’d listen to Zevran recite the Chant of Light ad nauseum, especially the Canticle of Transfigurations, just to hear it in that voice. It was a pity, in Anders’ mind, that those flirtations seemed as though they were addressed to everyone and everything. Maybe if they weren’t, he could read Zevran a little bit better, and decide whether those winks and smirks meant something more than that Zevran was in love with the world.  
  
By the time he’d found a job, of sorts, supplying a local apothecary with healing potions in bulk, he had a permanent room in a hotel thanks to the considerable sway Zevran held over the merchants and business-owners in Antiva City proper, and that was a miracle in itself. Save for the room at Vigil’s Keep, which had never really felt like his anyway, this was the first time in a long time that Anders really felt at home. It wasn’t more than a bed, a chair, a chest, and a couple of shelves, but it was  _his_ —except for that chair, which Ser Pounce-a-Lot had pointedly claimed as soon as he moved in.

It would have all been perfect; a new life, a new start, and a place to live, if only he could lay down at night and  _not_  think about how sweet Antivan lips would feel against his ear while whispering all sorts of filthy, filthy things in that gorgeous accent. It was getting to be a problem. His fantasies were taking on a life of his own, and occasionally he would meet up with Zevran somewhere and feel color rising on his cheeks just from remembering the things he  _imagined_  he’d say.

Not that there weren’t plenty of gorgeous, available people in Antiva City to choose from. But there was something to be said for first impressions, and damned if Zevran hadn’t made a good one, all caramel and gold, those sleek tattoos on his face, a persistent smile on that wide mouth, a mouth could probably do much, much better things than just speak, but Anders was trying not to let his mind wander around in  _those_  corridors too much.   
  
Trying and failing.   
  
It was strange; he didn’t hesitate like this at Kinloch Hold. The trysts he’d had there were as effortless as they were numerous; the hardest part was finding a place where the Templars couldn’t find you, and he knew at least a dozen spots like that. Out here it was…messy. He couldn’t just walk up to him and ask if he fancied a shag, well, maybe he could, that seemed to work well enough for Isabela, but as handsome as he might be willing to believe he was, he was no Isabela.

Isabela probably didn’t spend nights away in the heat, lying in her smalls, staring at candlelight flickering on the ceiling before closing her eyes to imagine lips on her ear.   
  
What would he say? Would it even matter? He’d heard that tongue in public and it was filthy, he could barely fathom what it would sound like directly on his ear, low and private, when he could  _feel_ the words in the shape of his lips and the brush of hot breath.

He was hard again, all that imagination coalescing into heat and ache and settling itself comfortably in his cock. He’d stopped counting after the third time that Zevran had taken center stage in his fantasies, and that had been months ago. He couldn’t even remember what he used to think about before coming to Antiva when he had his hands down his trousers, or up his robes, as it were.   
  
This particular fantasy had legs, and as he used one hand to pull down his smalls, wrapping the other around the base of his cock, he slipped off into it, again, feeling shameless and desperate, but not so much that he didn’t finish while thinking about tan skin and nimble fingers.


End file.
